


Annabeth Jay Crowley and the fabulous phenomenon of Magnus Bane

by levinjaycall



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: 'he' decides to switch things up, (totally not avoiding aziraphale), A little bit of Drama, Aziraphale shows up in America, Canon diversion, Catharina Loss is goodness in person, Chaotic Shenanigans, Comedy, Fluff, Other, crowley wakes up from his nap, magnus and crowley are besties, not much historical accuracy, so she moves to new york for her next mission, still heartbroken from Azi breaking up, writing this for fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27268987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levinjaycall/pseuds/levinjaycall
Summary: As Crowley wakes from his nap – a few decades after his fight with Az- the goddarn angel, he knows he 1) can't stay who he was and 2) will not, under any circumstance, face his 'enemy' again.A few decisions later, Annabeth Jay Crowley is on a boat to New York, on an infernal mission to kill one of the rare warlocks, which are hated by both Heaven and Hell. She tries to spy on him by visiting his parties, but can't help herself severely liking this crazed person. He decides to offer her a friendship, and she accepts, starved for understanding and kindess ever since her breakup with Aziraphale. Things get stickier, Hell gets impatient, and then (because Crowley didn't have enough problems already) she spots Aziraphale walking along the street.This is the tale of one of the many little rebellions Crowley and Aziraphale led against their Head Offices – this time featuring the warlocks, badass friendships and a ton of glitter.(Which Magnus invented, by the way. Still one of his bigger accomplishments.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Magnus Bane & Catarina Loss, Magnus Bane & Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 1





	Annabeth Jay Crowley and the fabulous phenomenon of Magnus Bane

It appeared to be late afternoon when Crowley finally woke up from his nap. Pale sunlight filtered through the dusty air in his room, and everything around him was dirty and rotten. He pushed himself up with a groan and wondered what on earth had had the audacity to wake him.

The Thing was a charred pile of paper in the center of his room. A faint trickle of smoke rose from dark red flames, and icy panic flooded Crowley. He had been so caught up with his best fr- his "hereditory enemy" that he had completely forgotten about his demonic duties. How long, exactly, had he been sleeping?! Scrambling out of bed, he raced over to the memos and sifted through them.

Many of them simply were small things – a curse here, some havoc there, leads as to what the Principality of Heaven was up to (of course, Crowley knew much more about that guy than head office would ever find out). But then an unusually urgent note caught his eye. It read:

"CROWLEY.

CONTROL OFFICE FOUND DEMONIC MAGICAL PRESENCE APART FROM OURS. FIFTEEN

YEARS AGO IN LONDON. NOW IN NEW YORK. WHOEVER IS THIS IS GOOD AT HIDING.

FIND THEM.

WE SUSPECT A HALF-BREED. ANNIHALATE IT.

HASTUR."

Oh.

A half-breed. The humans called them magicians, or warlocks, or wizards, or another word. Half-breeds were children of demons and human women, who inherited some of the demonic powers and usually some unusual physical trait, like antlers or some snake skin. Thankfully, very few demons desired women. A great majority of Hell considered even touching a human disgusting, because of course it would taint them with good.

It never ended well for these poor people. Crowley vividly remembered Hilde, a young half-breed witch he'd met in Germany many centuries ago. He had known that she was different, and she had sensed it about him too. Crowley had been naïve then and had written to his head office, asking about her.

That same evening, Ligur had cheerily informed him of her death.

Crowley lay the note aside and looked through the rest of the papers. There was nothing of interest.

With a sigh, he pushed himself up from the ground and looked down at himself. His clothes had started to decay and were nowhere near suitable. His hair was still as short as it had been before, and he still had sideburns. He wondered, somewhat idly, whether they had gone out of fashion yet. His room was in a similar state of ruin. A thick layer of dust coated everything in sight, the drawer had nearly collapsed, and cobwebs wove around most corners. Through his grimy window, he could see houses that still looked reminiscent of the city he had fallen asleep in. They were old and worn, though, and in between them stood strange buildings, built from different materials and in a strange style.

A little bit of anxiety rose in his chest. How much future had he missed? What had changed and rocked the world while he had been asleep? After some minutes of pacing he decided to find out what year it was. That was the most important thing. He looked through what was left of his clothes and picked a shirt that was only partially moth-eaten and a pair of black trousers that had endured surprisingly well. Grabbing his rusty cane and his hat, he headed outside.

Only few people were out in the streets, and those that were shot him strange looks. Crowley went along the street in the direction of what he had once known as Central London. A woman was walking in front of him (she had not seen him and thus could not avoid him), so Crowley politely tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me?"

She spun around and immediately took several steps back. Before she could say anything, Crowley asked, "Just as a point of interest – what century is it?"

The woman stared at him for a moment, then she told him.

"The twentieth century," Crowley muttered quietly, and incredulous anger burned up inside him. "No! 100 bloody years to sleep away my heartbreak! And it didn't even work!"

Now everyone was staring at him. The woman seemed to want to run away, but then hesitated and asked, "Excuse me, sir, are you a time-traveler of sorts?"

A sharp laugh escaped Crowley. "No," he barked, "but I might as well be one now. Hell, the Angel is going to be so smug about everything I missed." With these words, Crowley spun around on his heel and marched towards his old apartment. He needed to think.

Crowley soon made the decision that he needed to restart his life. He couldn't continue on as the old Mr. Crowley, who had casually slept more than a fucking century and had missed as much human development. He also needed to be un-recognisable enough that Az- the damn angel wouldn't recognise him at the first, or second, glance. There were a few options for that – dying or cutting his hair, for example, or changing his features.

The option he liked most, however, was changing his features to become a woman. He was a pretty genderless being, and had already spent several hundred years of his life as a woman. It came with its own struggles (men were often unbelievably ignorant), but the fashion was so much more varied, and besides – it was boring, staying a guy for so long. And if Hell asked what he'd done it for, he could just blame it on the halfbreed mission. Which, by the way, was exactly what he needed now. A complicated mission, one that Hell would keep a close eye on, that he needed to execute. No time for idiot angels or "feelings".

Later that evening, Mr. Hudson was just preparing his dressmaker's shop for closing when a redheaded young woman in extremely shabby, unfitting clothing walked in. He stared at her, but before he could say anything, she snapped her fingers, and everything went dark.

"I'm really sorry," Crowley told him, brushing her curly red hair from her face. She'd have to get used to putting it up again. "I just figured that I wouldn't come far without money or clothes."

With that, she went and closed the shutters, so she could find some outfits in peace. While she browsed the clothes, she idly wondered what A. J. would stand for now. Anthony J. wouldn't do. Amelie? Anna? Adeltraut?

About two hours later, Annabeth Jay Crowley walked out of the shop, carrying three full bags of clothing, and dressed in a sharp new outfit that she hoped was stylish enough to be inconspicuous. She explored the city, marveling at all that had changed, and found the harbour, in which interesting new ships – ones without sails – were waiting.

She stared at the muddy brown of the river, and thought of Aziraphale (briefly), trying not to remember everything they'd done in this city.

Crowley took a deep breath, pushed all that aside, and bought a ticket to New York.


End file.
